


Malone's

by Blackpenny



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4217499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place after The Three Formulas of Professor Sato.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malone's

I don't spend so much time out front in the bar since Rosie came along. Rosie, she's my girl. What a head on her shoulders that one's got! She says to me, "Mike, you're too much of an old softy. Put me in charge of those lay-abouts you've hired, and I'll make you rich." She's swell, my Rosie. We're going to get hitched this summer and move into a nice new place in Lakeview, four bedrooms, two baths, room to grow, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, with Rosie doing most of the work up front, I'm free to spend more time working on the inventory and thinking up new ideas. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I got a knack for these things. I came up with the idea of having little snacks passed around, but they never know when. Like, Louie, my cook, makes up a bunch of these little mushrooms with cheese in them all bubbling up– something classy like that – and you get the waitresses to take them around to people, all gratis and they act like you gave them the crown jewels. People love free stuff, the fancier, the better. And for every free appetizer, I sell three. Some nights I have kids from the U of C music school in to play jazz or classical tunes on their violins or clarinets or whatever they got. Everybody loves it, and the kids make a little extra cash for books or beer. Of course, I get a reputation for philanthropy which don't hurt business. This is what makes Malone's the kind of place you can take a lady after a show. Sure, I have a pool table in the back and I get a lot of guys coming in after work, but I don't put up with any roughhousing or crude language in my place. Class all the way.

Anyway, I had just come up with an idea for letting artists show their stuff and give Malone's a bit of free, high-class décor and maybe some press. I was coming out of my office to tell Rosie, when I noticed a customer. It's an hour before we open, so I'm a little P.O.ed, but Rosie sidles up to me, all concerned, and says this guy is here to see me, and only me, and he’s not a bill collector or a salesman ‘cause I ain’t got debts and I don’t buy from anyone I don’t know personal.  
I go up to the bozo intending to give him a piece of my mind when he looks up and holy smoke! I was never so glad to see a guy in my bar since my very first customer.  
"Hello… Mike is it?" he says to me with a crooked kind of smile.

"That's what I'm going by now." I'm shaking his hand and I can't get the grin off his face. Rosie is dusting glasses a little ways off, but I can tell she's still keeping an eye on us.

"You look real good, Mr…."

"Allingham. Henry Allingham. I hope you don't remember me by any other name.

"You bet bo—Mr. Allingham."

"This is your place. Call me Henry." Mr. A. looks around and nods and I can tell that he likes the place, which makes me feel pretty proud. See, I used to work for this guy and he knew a lot about nice places, kind of made a study of it. He wasn't an easy guy to deal with a lot of the time, but he was a good boss, and helped me make a lot of money in my pre-respectable days. I pour him a generous, top-drawer gin and tonic and get myself a scotch.

"So what brings you to Chicago?"

"Business. I'm on my way south where there's a political situation that requires my attention. You understand I can't give you more details."

This makes me take a second look. The boss looks good, a lot healthier than the last time I saw him which was, what, three years ago? His hair is a little longer, more casual, and he has a neat beard with two little white streaks on each side of his mouth and a bit more silver at the sides of his face. He's wearing a nice navy blue suit that must have set him back a few bucks. It occurs to me that he looks like a professor who's hit the big time, which is pretty funny if you know the history. The biggest change, though, is that he looks kind of relaxed, which is stranger than the beard or anything else. I tell him all about the bar, and what I’ve been up to until it occurs to me that I’m not letting him get a word in edgewise.

"You, um, working for the government?"

He gives me one of those cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smiles. "For a branch of it, unofficially. It's interesting work."

"You seem to be doing nice. Nicely, I mean. You live in D.C.?"

"I did for a while, when I still had to prove myself." He makes kind of a sour face, but just for a second. "Now I have a place in the Northwest. I bought some property that was running wild, but I'm bringing it under control. It's secluded. I find I like it that way in my old age."

I have a hard time trying to imagine the boss walking around the wood picking wildflowers, but I suppose he knows what he’s doing.

"Was it hard to, um, break into the government?" Mr. A. laughs and I realize how dumb that must sound considering our old line of work. "I mean, did they give you a rough time about it?"

"It wasn't easy, no. For a while there was some question as to whether I'd be getting a job or a jail cell. It helps that I don't have a presence in the home office. I'm on the books as a consultant and I only interact with a few people."

"That sounds kind of lonely."

"I don't mind in the least.” He puts some emphasis on that last word. “I find that staying away from people helps me focus.” He looks grim for a moment. “Too much time in a crowd gives me destructive impulses."

Like any good barman, I know how to steer a conversation, especially away from a dark place. I don't mess with psychology, but I know the boss well enough to know that those "destructive impulses" are pretty bad.

"You said it was interesting work, though. That sounds pretty good."

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I once met your President Nixon, you know." He shakes his head. "Very strange."

"I wish I had known you were okay all this time. I was worried."

"I sent a postcard. Didn't you get it?" 

I think for a second, trying to remember.

"Wait a second. A blank postcard of the Washington Monument? How was I supposed to know that was you?"

"Who else could it have been?" 

I don’t have anything to say to that, but it seems a bit… what’s the word? Not obvious, at least.

Mr. A. checks his watch. It's plain looking if you don't know what to look for, but I know a pricey timepiece when I see one and this one is as thin as a whisker and platinum, not plated. Seeing it tells me that the boss is doing well, financially, which is good. He's not the kind of person who can live poor and like it. "I don't have much time," he says. "Is that Miss Lombardi?" He nods towards Rosie.

"Yeah! How'd you know about her?"

Of course, he doesn’t answer. "I have something for the two of you." He reaches down to the floor and I motion Rosie to come over."

"Hey, Rosie, can you come over and see Mr. Allingham?" I can tell she's not real happy. Rosie is a great lady, but she's a worrier. Anything that comes from my past gets her going.

Rosie reaches out to shake the boss's hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Allingham. I've heard a lot about you."

They kind of lock eyes for a second and I get a bit nervous. See, Rosie doesn't miss a trick and she's letting the boss know it. It strikes me that Rosie is like the boss in a lot of ways and maybe people who are alike don't get along so good. It only lasts a second, though, and everything is okay again.

"The honor is mine, Miss Lombardi. I'm just passing through to present you with a gift on the occasion of your wedding."

He kind of waves to a large, cardboard box on the bar and Rosie opens it. It's a really pretty painted chest, about the size of a case of beer. It looks really old.  
"It's Tibetan. The painted flowers are Gesang which represent prosperity." The boss waits for Rosie to open the painted box. Inside are two, long strips of very fancy white cloth. She looks kind of questioning at the boss.

"Those are called Khata. They're traditional gifts for special occasions such as marriages."

Rosie looks at the scarves. Even I can tell they're nice material. They're just plain white, but there are all kinds of little figures woven right in. Some Tibetan lady put a lot of work into them, probably a long time ago.

"Thank you, they're lovely. It's a very thoughtful gift," Rosie says, and she's smiling like she means it. She picks up the cheque from the bottom of the box. “This is really too generous.”

"Not at all. I’m pleased to… well, my best wishes for you both," says the boss. He seems a little embarrassed and says he needs to get to the airport now. He shakes my hand and Rosie's hand again, and she surprises both of us by planting a little kiss on his cheek.

I can see why he'd want to get going before we open officially, but I still wish he'd stick around.

"Will you be able to visit us again?"

The boss gets the look on his face like he's going to say something snappy, but he pushes it down. Funny, I see Rosie do that sometimes. She's a lot better at it than he is.

"I may be able to write now and then, depending on what happens in Washington. If I can, I will. Who knows? Maybe there will be other occasions for gift-giving."

Rosie looks at me, all smiles. “There will be.” I feel myself turn red in the face, but the boss doesn’t notice, lucky me.

We walk him to the door, and just like that, he leaves. Rosie puts the scarves in her hope chest and the box in a locked display cabinet by the piano. She says the cheque will buy us a dining room suite and start college funds for any new little Malones that come along. She says that after we're married, Mr. A. is welcome to visit again, only this time at our house. She acts like she’s sure he’ll be back, which I don’t get. She's a swell girl. I don't expect Mr. A. to ever show up, but it's nice that she's leaving the door open.

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to believe that a character who survived a nuclear blast and the destruction of Atlantis would be killed in an ordinary explosion, so yes, a post-Sato fic.


End file.
